The massive rotor of the Mi-171 helicopter slowly stops turning, eventually landing on the helipad of a heavily guarded private estate in the western suburbs of Damascus.
It's like an isolated island amidst the fires of war, far from the deafening artillery and the aura of death on the front lines, replaced by an unsettling, almost stagnant tranquility.
A three-meter-high concrete wall topped with glistening barbed wire, ubiquitous cameras resembling cold, compound eyes, slowly rotating, scanning every inch of land.
Heavily armed Presidential Guard soldiers are spread across various critical nodes, thumbs habitually placed on trigger guards, the "golden finger" movement seemingly interpreting that these are highly trained elite soldiers.
One official from the President's Mansion, dressed in a dark suit, received them.
His English carried an Oxford accent, perfectly prim and proper.
"Mr. Song, Colonel Yevgeny."
